


this thing we almost have

by Anonymous



Category: McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Anxiety, Cuddling, M/M, Sensory mishmash, These boys are not on the same page, but they're going to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 20:27:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11066511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It always clouded Nick’s brain to have him nearby. When they podcasted together, Griffin might say his name a dozen times to make sure he had Nick’s attention. When he had him in his line of sight, Griffin was a great deal more tactile: frequently touching Nick’s wrist and shoulder to make sure Nick was looking so that Griffin could read him an important tweet or terrible news headline or show him his neopets.Which is how Nick ended up here: holed up in his own bathroom, the sink running to give him some ambient noise as he berated himself harshly, needing the clarity of thought that came with putting a wall and a door between himself and Griffin McElroy.





	this thing we almost have

**Author's Note:**

> Okay friends, here is the thing. 
> 
> I don't do RPF. Not ever before, but I listen to CGI and IDK anything about the boy's real lives but I wanted to play with a fictionalized version of them because the dynamic they play on their show is charming as heck and I wanted to play with it. So. Um. Anonymous fic which I hope you enjoy and, um, I don't really want the Molotov cocktails that people that ship it seem to get. 
> 
> ALSO: not meant to be a reflection of real people or their real feelings. Just some goofiness. Thanks friends.

“You’re not in love with Griffin McElroy.”

When Nick said this, he said it with a stern frown, speaking more harshly with himself that he would ever speak with anyone else he knew. This was mostly because his dumbass heart needed a firm hand or else it tended to run amok. Especially before an extended stay where he would see his friend _in the flesh._

Nick could pull his hair out with the pre-emptive frustration and anxiety. The first time Griff had come to stay with him, Nick had had the brilliant idea of listening to five hours of old MBMBAM episodes, thinking it would work like an inoculation.

He’d been wrong, of course. If there was such a talisman against the charm of the Babiest McElroy, he hadn’t found it yet. Instead, his idea had backfired and he’d primed himself completely for his company. By the time he’d driven him from the airport to his apartment, Nick was ready to accept Griffin McElroy into his heart completely as his personal Lord and Savior.

_Idiot._

This is the thing about Griffin, best as Nick could tell: having spent years with his brothers under the scrutiny of savvy and kind millennials, Griffin had come out of the tumbler (if one would excuse him the pun) of their attention polished. Kinder, softer, more conscientious. He had taken a long look into the abyss of toxic masculinity and the abyss had flinched first.

Which left Nick with a straight friend who had completely conquered all internalized homophobia, hangups about gender, and aversion to platonic intimacy. They’d been in public last time Griffin was in town and had gone out for frozen yogurt and there had been a brief (ecstatic/torturous) moment where Griffin had _held his hand_ and Nick’s brain didn’t stop screaming at him for hours.

It always clouded Nick’s brain to have him nearby. When they podcasted together, Griffin might say his name a dozen times to make sure he had Nick’s attention, but when he had him in his line of sight, Griffin was a great deal more tactile, frequently touching Nick’s wrist and shoulder to make sure Nick was looking so that Griffin could read him an important tweet or terrible news headline or show him his neopets.

Which is how Nick ended up here: holed up in his own bathroom, the sink running to give him some ambient noise as he berated himself harshly, needing the clarity of thought that came with putting a wall and a door between himself and Griffin McElroy.

When he came back, he situated himself on the couch more carefully, a good portion of the middle cushion between them. He hoped it looked natural. He worried it did not. “Sorry,” Nick muttered, as Griffin went to unpause the episode. “I have to keep my meds on a certain schedule.”

Griffin did not nod so much as thrust his head forward and then back like a pecking bird. “Okie doke,” he said. He did not return to his previous position, which Nick was grateful for, even while he resented it. Five minutes ago, Griffin McElroy  — who was a good friend when he was out of physical proximity and an all consuming crush when he was in Nick’s line of sight — had one knee wedged against Nick’s outer thigh which was innocuous enough but when paired with Nick’s attraction and his processing difficulties, was totally unfair. It was the kindest, most gentle sort of torture and Nick found himself in turns shying away from it and relishing the warmth of it.  

“Who is the beefy boy again?” Griffin asked. From the far side of the couch. Nick, incongruently, wanted to shift towards him, tuck himself under Griffin’s chin.  

Nick huffs. “We’re six episodes in, Griff. If you haven’t figured out who he is by now, we should probably turn it off.”

“Nicholas,” Griffin wheedles. He just wants to make Nick say everyone’s name, call him out for being a weeb — Nick wasn’t born yesterday.

“You’re trying to make me look like a goober,” Nick says. That happens when Griff’s around: he infects everyone with his peculiar vocabulary. Nick will be saying _tooted_ and shortening words that do not need to be shortened for weeks.

“You _are_ a goober,” Griffin states, matter-of-fact. “I’m just doing my duty to highlight it. I’m like a … what’s the makeup word?”

Nick blinks balefully at him as if to ask why he is asking Nick to cover his lexical gaps, before he gives in and cracks a smile. “You mean like a good highlighter?”

Griffin snaps his finger at him, beaming. He’s stupid cute, and he wields it recklessly. Nick gives in and tells him _the beefy one'_ s name, and he doesn’t even blame himself. (How could he? Griffin is a force to be reckoned with. The man gets what he wants.)

By the end of the next episode, they’re dangerously close to cuddling again.

Whose fault is that? Nick likes to blame Griffin, because he’s blithe about it, but it’s not like he’s a victim. He could have stayed put at his end of the sofa after he’d relocated, instead, somehow, here he is, touching Nick in the center of the center cushion.

Nick’s heart is doing something stupid, a trampoline maneuver that leaves him feeling alternately swooping with elation and then swooping rapidly downward. He feels like he’s having hot flashes.

“Hey Griffin,” he says, as Griffin encroaches further into his space. “What are you doing?”

“Cuddling?” he says, inflection and emphasis skewed like he does. The tail end of the word comes out like _dealing._ “Do you like it?”  

Nick should probably say something. For his own mental health, he should say _no, it makes me uncomfortable,_ or, go for something almost honest, _it crosses wires in my brain and I want you to mean it in a different way._ Instead, he says, “Yeah, bud, it’s nice.”

Griffin looks happy again, goofy and loose the way he gets after some hot tub beers or the one time he and Nick smoked, after Nick discovered the magic of that sacred plant and spent a dedicated few months. “Good good good great good cool,” Griffin says, all in a run without spaces. Cowboy Beebop is a distant memory.

 _Hey idiot,_ he tells himself, when Griffin nuzzles into his shoulder. It is a silent haranguing this time, because he and Griffin are sitting on the same couch, Griffin’s face is literally inches from his own. _You’ve got a cuddly friend. He might be the best friend you’ve ever had. Stop being a dirty pervert and just enjoy his friendship._

Nick gets tangled sometimes, mostly in his own indecision, or awkwardness. Now that he’s given himself a firm internal shake and some clear direction… which is not to mention the fact that Griffin has unabashedly claimed to be cuddling him…

Nick gets into it. Really gets into it. There is an ache in his chest, but it feels like he’s touching ice through cotton. It is a distant pain, and he postpones prodding at it until Griffin has made it safely home.

Griffin gets half on top of Nick and Nick almost moans at the surreal loveliness of the pressure. He’s got a weighted blanket he uses sometimes, but it pales in comparison when examined side by side with the blissful crush of his body.

It echoes through his mind. _Cuddling. Do you like it?_ like that’s something a man can just _say._ Griffin McElroy breaks the mold.

“Nicholas,” Griffin says, pulling on his name like saltwater taffy to stretch it out.

“Yes dear,” Nick responds flatly.

“I’m glad we’re bosom companions.”

For someone who commits a lot of blasphemy on his podcast, Griffin could be shockingly wholesome in his day-to-day language. It was one of the many lovable things about him. Once, Griffin had honest-to-God said _what the hickle-heck is going on here?_ and Nick’s heart fucking fell out of his chest and flopped around at Griffin’s feet like a Magikarp.

With an armful of warm, squirming boy, it’s a strange thing to hear.

“I’m sorry I’m being clingy,” he says, blithely, rubbing his face into Nick’s chest. Griffin has second day stubble, and Nick can feel the catch of his facial hair through the thin cotton of his t-shirt and Nick has an immediate desire to feel the scritch of it across his skin. (Chest, wrist, he’s not picky when it comes to the pitch-perfect pleasure of being scratched.)

“Ah,” Nick stuttered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t even ask… are you having a rough week?”

“Well it’s better _now,_ ” Griffin practically yodels. “This long-distance thing is _the phooiest._ Literally the tippy-tippy bottom of human experience.”

Nick’s internal organs performed a swap-a-roo with the sheer surprise of the words coming out of Griffin’s mouth. Nick is silent, and above him, Griffin stiffens.

“Nicholas,” Griffin says, scrambling — back, away, and off of Nick — he looks _horrified._ Nick is so fucking confused and anxious that he gets hit with a wave of instant nausea. “I am going to say an insane question with my mouth and I am going to need you to answer me honestly.”

Nick can only nod mutely. His throat is so dry, he knows if he tries to speak his voice will splinter.

“Yes or no, are we in a relationship of the romance-and-smooching variety?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Nick says, and there it is, he wasn’t wrong about the splintering.

Griffin looks crazy-eyed, still pressed to the far side of the couch, putting as much distance between them as is possible without flinging himself out of the room. “You must think I’m fucking insane.”

“I mean. It does explain all of the touching when you visit.”

Griffin puts his head in his hands and what he says next is too muffled to parse.

“Not a good windscreen,” Nick chides gently, wrapping his hand around Griff’s wrist and pulling it away from his face. “Science has gone _too far,_ and I can’t hear a single plosive.”

“I’m sorry,” Griffin says. He sounds _fucking humiliated._ “I should … I should go?”

“Please don’t,” Nick says, earnest, as it finally lands, gets parsed in his head that Griffin thought they were _boyfriends._ “You, um, might have gotten the order wrong, but the thesis statement is a good one. I’m, not, uh, opposed to the arrangement. I just thought you were an affectionate straight guy.”

Griffin barks out a laugh. “ _Nicholas,_ we send _good morning texts._ I visit you _a lot_ and we always cuddle. We end all of our phone calls with I love you.” Near the end of his list, he sounds slightly hysterical.

Nick frowns. This is compelling evidence for sure. “We’ve don’t kiss, though.”

“We did in the hot tub!”

“You were very drunk,” Nick pointed out.

“You didn’t act like you regretted it in the morning! And — and I _know_ you have that thing with skin, which is why you’re so skittish when we touch. I thought we were taking it slow. I mean — I thought that was why, oh my God I am the biggest fucking idiot.”

“I do like to take it slow,” Nick says, “but if a long distance boyfriend came to visit me, I probably would have done a little smooching with him.”

Griffin’s face is back in his hand as he lets out a low, laughably miserable groan. It goes on for a while.

“You all out of air?” Nick asks when it seems to be over. Griffin nods mutely. “Would you like to kiss now… You know, as boyfriends on the same page?”

Griffin is evenly flushed Kirby-pink. “I would like that a whole bunch of a lot.”

When Nick leans in to put his mouth against Griffin’s, he puts out one last PSA. “I am going to punch you in the mouth with my mouth. Because you’re great and my heart is always happy to see you and you’re adorable. Check yes or no.”

“Heck yes check yes,” Griffin says, equal parts cute and slightly unhinged as always.

When Nick crowds up against him, hovering just a breath away from Griffin’s mouth and situating his arms to hold him close, it feels like the coming-home snap of a lego stack pressed into place. “Oh,” Griffin says. Nick is a little taller, has to tily his head down to get in range.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Griff mutters, body tight with harnessed excitement.

“I’m coming,” Nick smirks, and kisses him square on the face. It’s everything he’d always imagined, when he dared to imagine it: warm and with an armfull of squirmy Griffin. Fucking perfect. Nick can feel the rattle of his heart against his own chest.

“Neat,” Griffin says, half cross-eyed.

Nick’s heart is a fucking Magikarp. Splish splash.


End file.
